Assalamu Alaykum
by ilikebirdies
Summary: It takes a lot to get a reputation and only a little to knock it down. Altair ditches his family to be an Assassin - what of it? Basically just Altair's past. Some BL implied, lots of swearing.
1. Meet the Assassin

"Why won't you eat the food that's good for you?" A fork with some sort of vegetable on it – being held by a stingy old lady in rags, head to toe, veil and all – was pointed at her son's plate, the food spraying off just the slightest, enough to reinforce his refusal to even _touch_ the utensil used to eat the shit that sat in front of him. His face twisted awkwardly as he tried to comprehend what it was she was trying to make him devour. It had, according to the lady, all the healthy foods that he required to be 'healed,' or so the doctor said. That in of itself was also another no-brainer in the "I am not eating that crap" factor – a _doctor_ prescribed _food_ that looked like it might come to life and shank him with the knife that was waiting patiently to be lifted and plunged into a delicacy.

"Ya Miria, leave 'im alone." A not-so well-to-do man spoke out to his wife – the mother – who was apparently named _Miria_. The chubby man smiled down at their son, elated to actually see him for once. He'd always been off with some new friends in some sort of weird clan he joined nowadays, and barely saw the dysfunctional family of three.

"But he _needs_ to eat what the doctor_sai_-" She was cut short by her rather impatient spouse.

"Oh and now we take advice from random men on the street who claim to be doctors? Forget him, he knew nothing of which he spoke, I can bet. So what if our son's into the whole 'Assassinate everyone' thing? Don't all at one time or another?" He laughed heartily. Something about the way he spoke screamed 'Hi I'm Arabic' in contrast to the wife's English accent.

"_I_ never was!"

"You're a girl."

"He's a kid!"

"_I_ was a kid when _I_ was into it!" The husband pushed his chair back, creaking against the floor hard enough to make the son's screwed face cringe further, lifting his hands part-way to his ears as if that would reflect the sound. Wiping his face of any left-overs then setting the napkin on the plate, the husband took a few steps away from the table to kiss his wife atop her head. As if to scare him of, she shook her head. "Besides,"

"I think I might assassinate _you._" She tried to lower her voice as much as possible. The man picked up on what she said, albeit not much, hearing it faintly.

"What was that?"

"Besides _what_?" She amended.

"Besides," The stairs leading to the attic had nothing in the way of them – perfect escapes plan in case his wife went berserk. "It is probably just a pha-" Though he expected the mother to flip her shit twice over, the son stood, kicking his seat away and smacking the plate off the table. It shattered against a wall, food and glass scattering across the wooden floor. Both parents fell silent, eyes on the son menacingly, tinged with only a bit of fear. Fear turned into guilt on the mother's behalf, maternal instincts kicking in as she saw a few tears roll down his cheeks.

"Look, Ibrahim, you made him cry!" She left out 'Ya.'

"Stay your tongue, Miria." The child snapped quietly, moving not else.

"Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad," Her tone was sharp. "If you'll continue to speak to _your mother_ that way, you can just go to your room for the night! You ought to, any ways, it's late."

"I said," it was hard to sound intimidating when you'd just cried, voice now shaky. Not to mentioned rather shrill, what with being but the tiny age of four years. "_Stay_ your tongue." Out of pure the, the woman made for her room in a sob, wailing about her abnormal child.

"Father-"

"Not going to call me by my first name, then?" Ibrahim had a knack for interrupting, so it seemed.

"I was getting to it."

"Oh?"

"Yes. _Father_, or should I say _Ibrahim_," the words came out sounding a lot cockier than he first intended. "I can no longer live under this house, under _your_ name and call myself _your_ or that dreaded woman who was lucky enough to receive the rather hideous name of _Miria_, son and its rules." Being the son of a Muslim man and Christian woman, the poor child was covered top to bottom in hot, cotton clothes, even during summer. It felt like shedding into a new life to take all off save for the thin silk pants with knee-high white socks that matched in colour – white.

His father snorted, turning his brow up a notch and taking a step back to properly look at the idiot his son had become. "Really? And _why_ is that?" He had no interest in continuing the conversation but Altaïr seemed locked into it.

"Call me by my surname."

"And mine."

"As you wish, last it only a couple years longer at most." Altaïr smirked, pleased with his own comeback. It was awful clever for only having come up with it on the spot.

The little joke was less than amusing to his father, though. "So why can't you 'live under this house and its rules,'" he made quotations with his fingers, satisfied with the angered look on Altaïr's face. "_ibn-La'Ahad?_" A cackle emitted from his throat, but Altaïr knew _just_ what to say.

"You just explained."

"Huh?"

"I am an ibn-La'Ahad, the son of no one. I'll not be marked by the fools I come from or the false idols they follow. Sadly, you haven't admitted to yourself that _God_ is but a myth, told for who knows how long, and _Miria_ has yet to admit the _Jesus_ was a normal man, if at all real. So I am neither a son of you, Miria, Jesus, God, nor whoever else would love for me to be their own."

"Gimme a break, Altaïr. How many times have we gone through this? Like I have repeated to you so many times in the past, you're only mimicking what that man – what was his name, Al Mualim? Right. You're only mimicking what he forced into your brain. Craziness. He's the only one who's done any lying, son, I assure of it."

"I am not your son."

"Or for Christ's sake, you still wet your bed!" He threw his arms in the air. "And you think that you started walking on your own? You had to have parents to learn how to walk, and you need parents to learn to control your goddamn bladder!"

"I may be young and...I may have done childish things in the past, but I'll have you know I'm no normal kid."

"I got _that_much!"

"I am _far_ more intelligent than even the average give double my age!" Altaïr's fists were at his sides, clenched, speaking through bared teeth as well. He had to force himself to relax, though, fearing the conversation would only plummet on his half for his next statement which he felt so inclined to get across. "And in any case, I haven't wet myself for two weeks."

"Two week!"

Dammit.

"Yes, two weeks!"

"Look, brat, I haven't pissed myself since I got so drunk I couldn't feel my-"

"Slang for being in a state of intoxication? What kind of Muslim are you?"

"Are you trying to _provoke_ me?"

"Have you _just_ caught on, Ibrahim?" The smirk tugged at his lips again.

"Get out of my house, and don't come back."

"With _pleasure_."

"Pay _attention_ to the way you move your feet! Do not being to stumble around aimlessly after _one_ hit, it will do you no good! Predict the next movement, always; don't just observe where their sword is! Watch they body, feet, eyes, arms, legs, everything! You'd better have this all down by the time you're righting two or more people at once and grow eyes in the back of that thick fucking skull of yours! _Dammit_, Altaïr, I now you can do _so_ much better than the shit you're giving me today! Keep your head up or it'll get nicked, like this!" The trainer swiftly knocked Altaïr's sword out of his hand, given the upper hand at Altaïr's current state of being – overwhelmed and unmotivated. As the sword went propelling across the field, the student and crowd could only watch in amazement, "Ooh"s being passed throughout as it landed in the ground, blade down, tilted to perfection.

As Altaïr's body swung back around, more prepared, the trainer lifted his blade in one motion, flicking his wrist down quick enough to nearly cut Altaïr well in the chest or leg. Being the amazing little bastard he was, Altaïr bent backwards, flipping once before landing on the tips of his feet, rocking to his soles in the defense stance. He body moved up...then down...up...then down in a slow rhythm as he regained his breath, the two contenders now staring each other down. Altaïr enjoyed fighting this particular one, he always was _insulting_ while instructing, both aggravating Altaïr to the point of needing blind revenge while reminding him he had to refrain himself – that this is what being an Assassin was all about, patience and control. The trainer wasn't treating him like a child who'd first heard of the Creed – like so many others at his age – but like the rest of the novices. "He wouldn't be a novice if he wasn't ready," the man explained every time someone questioned why he was 'so tough' on a child.

The sun baked every inch of Altaïr's exposed skin, and he was sweating madly by the time he'd _gotten_ to the ring. Now he was reduced to clothes very alike the ones he wore when he'd left his previous life and joined the Creed, still a hot mess. Kids and teens of all ages and ranks stood around the training ring, silence smoking the air for about five seconds before wild clapping – hooting and hollering, but not for long. They died out quickly as, one by one; they all heard the trainer laughing, sword pointed at Altaïr loosely.

"What?" The young novice prodded at the laughter, raising a brow in confusion. What was so damn hilarious? Then someone tickled at his lips, and he licked them, suddenly remembering they were there.

Ah, that's what would be funny.

The taste of metal slid onto his tongue as he cleared up the mess the trainer had made. A finger lightly rose to his lips, and pressed softly. He flinched at his own touch, hissing in pain that throbbed at the left – or rather, his right – corner of his lip. Busted. The trainer busted his lip open. He let the defense stand go, realizing it was over. He'd lost.

Despite, one pair of hands continued the previous clapping, another joining in, then another, then two more, then five, then ten. Soon, everyone was clapping again.

"What?" He looked around in search of the source for clapping, when Al Mualim emerged from the crown, a visible path mad for him by the separation of watchers.

"Very impressive, as always, Altaïr."

He loved it when his master said his name.

"Wh- I mean, thank you, but I-"

"No no, don't thank me yet. I fear I might become your enemy..."His eyes darkened, but Altaïr's widened.

"I'm going to spar with _you_?"

"Heavens no! Uh, not yet! You will need to come with me back to my office, though. And besides, it's getting late. THE REST OF YOU!" He held up a hand and waited patiently for the crowd's murmuring to die off. "Dismissed."

No sooner than he spat the words out were kids trucking out of the training grounds, whooping with their friend. After what seemed like a good 30 seconds, only two boys remained, one obvious taller than the other. As they approached, their figures became clearer, revealing them to be the two known as the Al-Sayf brothers, and Altaïr's only real friends. Kadar, the littler of the two, broke free from his protective brother's grasp, face pretty much coming in contact with the back of Altaïr's head roughly, causing one to grunt and the other to yelp. Who did what was unclear, but they were both now on the floor – like morons. Malik, the older brother who looked like he had to be at least ten years older, yanked his small brother up from the collar of his shirt, frowning in disapproval.

"Master, Master!" Kadar started, but Malik slapped a hand on his mouth. ("Stay your tongue, you aren't even a novice." "I'm old enough." "You shouldn't even be preparing until you're 10." "Not fair!")

Malik stopped the rather redundant fight with the _4-year-old_, turning his attention to Al Mualim who now had a raise brow. "Master, is Altaïr going to be alright?" he looked at his friend. "We're worried about him." For some reason far beyond the old man, Malik was smiling sheepishly.

"Mmhmm! Mm mmm hmm hummm mmm mmph-!" Altaïr slammed his hand over Malik's, giving the same guilty look.

"...I don't know, Malik. You will have to wait and ask him when he returns." He motioned for the novices to lower their hands, both doing so immediately.

"Okay! Thanks Mister Sir Man!" Kadar grabbed Malik's wrist, leading him out in a sprint. Malik tried to call back, but it went unheard, Al Mualim his resting his head in his hands, sighing.

"Visit us tonight!" Kadar's voice rang.

When you're at a loss as to how to inform someone of heart-breaking news, you usually sit in silence. Al Mualim was perched behind his desk in the tall wooden chair of his, arms set lightly upon the table's surface with crossed fingers. He was staring down as if his thoughts were scribbled on the table like a script, wishing they were so he knew what to say. He was only in his mid thirties and still had a lot to learn of life, telling someone such terrible news being one of them.

"Altaïr," He finally allowed the words to slip from his mouth, regretting it almost instantaneously as the young novice's head snapped up from the slumber he was in after waiting so long. "As you know, you are to become an Assassin one day."

"Yes, master."

"And that can only lead to you and you family being tracked down by our enemy, you understand?"

"Of course, master. Might I ask where this is go-"

"I...I...Altaïr..." The pigeons' chirping added no comfort to the older man's woes when he watched them. How do you break this to a 6-year-old...? "Altaïr, we've received news saying your parents were murdered. After further investigation, we're sorry to say it's true." Predictions of the little boy screaming "WHY?" and crying and quitting the Order flooded Al Mualim as he waited, hearing only silence.

A shrug followed the crushing report. "Oops. Am I dismissed?"

"You're not...sad?"

"My last name _is_ ibn-La'Ahad. Was I supposed to be sad?"

"..."

"Good night, master." Altaïr's voice had a happy laugh to it, and he turned to the left, hopping out of the chair and onto the floor, feet silently scuffling along as he retreated to his own room.

"Altaïr, if you could, send Malik back here, please?" As though a brick wall suddenly appeared before him, Altaïr skidded to a halt, eyes widened with fear as he turned his body round to face his master.

"Did his parents get murdered too?" His voice was low and stiff.

"No!" Al Mualim yelped, almost bothered by the fact that Altaïr cared more for people he didn't know than his own parents. "Just get him over here quickly!" As the man turned around, Altaïr let out a sigh of relief he didn't know he had, relaxing his muscles.

"Oh, thank God…Goodnight…"

"Goodnight."

"MURDERED?"

A nod.

"Oh! Poor you, Ya Alty! Aw, how I mourn for your sad, sad loss!" Kadar started weeping loudly, and his older brother groaned, noticing the noise in his deep sleep. Being the loving little boy he was, this was just a tragedy with a capital T. Not that it wouldn't be for most people, loving or not, but Kadar needed his people to thrive at all times. He was always clinging to someone's robes; he was never alone. He didn't quite understand that Altaïr was the opposite – when Altaïr got to be alone or take on people single-handedly, was he right. He shoved the other's overwhelming affection off.

"Stop that!" He whined, flashing Kadar as grin like gold to reassure him it was in good heart. Kadar cocked his head to the side.

"What? But your parents-"

"So? I didn't…know them that well. Our Master, Al Mualim, is more like a parental figure than those two oafs put together." He crawled away, trying to find Malik in the poor lighting that seeped in from the open windows. He tripped over a large, snoring thing as Kadar questioned himself as to why someone only a couple years older than he himself was wouldn't be bawling at such a life-spinning thing.

"Ya Malik!" Altaïr nudged the sleeping figure. "_Es-hy, Ya Malik!"_

"Mmm…" Toss, turn, shift, adjust, but no waking up."

"_Ya Malik!_"

"Mmm…?"

"Hmmph. Kadar, how do I wake the beast?" Giggling, Kadar pointed to 'The Beast's' face with the hand that wasn't being used to cover his mouth to stifle laughter.

"…Plug his nose?"

"Nooo!" He snorted, and got closer to pinpoint Malik's lips better. "He's like the one girl who can only awaken from her 100 year slumber with true love's kiss!" He gave a corny sigh.

"…M-Malik is in love with me?" He sounded like a prepubescent girl, dropped the 'Ya,' and looked as uncomfortable as one getting the talk of periods.

"Nooo! Ew! Hahaha, no, Ya Altaïr! But you have to kiss him to wake him."

"Why? That's _disgusting_!"

"Exactly." There was too much deviousness in his voice. Altaïr's brow shot up.

"Exactly _what_? You do it. You're brothers…"

"That's why I _can't_, eww-er!" Kadar pretended to gag.

"Ya Kadarrr!"

"Go on!"

"…don't tell any one."

"You're asking an Al-Sayf to be quiet?"

"Ya Kadar!"

"Fine, fine. Go on!" He turned around to give Altaïr privacy, giggling and snorting and chortling.

Altaïr put a leg over Malik's body so that he was now straddling him in the air, one hand resting on the ground on either side of Malik's head. For a 14-year-old _boy_, he was awful cute when he slept, and the way his mouth hung open was almost…

No no no eww. He was doing this so the teen could report to Al Mualim as requested, not to get thoughts of adultery with a man he almost considered his _brother_. So quickly it seemed unreal, Altaïr leaned forward, shuddering at the fact that he was actually doing this, and pressed his lips _gently_ against Malik's. Kadar snickered and said something about it not being felt, so Altaïr pushed down harder, puckering his lips to be fuller. The kiss itself lasted for about 7.43 seconds longer than Altaïr would've appreciated. Malik had wrapped his arms around Altaïr's waste sleepily, returning the kiss even sloppier. It sent a weird chill down the young novice's spine, making him gasp and shudder unwelcomingly at the adrenaline it gave him. And what was Malik doing with fruits in his pants at night? Or at all?

"Ngh! MALIK! MALIK, STOP THAT!" Finally reaching his limit, Altaïr shoved his hands in the other's face, trying to pry himself free from the loose grasp that suddenly tightened when the teen was startled to consciousness.

"Ya Shar-? Altaïr? WHAT ARE YOU- IN MY ARM- BY MY FA- AAAAH…?" The boys nearly used each other as a jumpstart to leap across the room to opposite sides, eyes widened, faces, necks, and ears during crimson, breathing heavily in the increasing embarrassment. Kadar was, on the other hand, laughing so hard his eyes were tearing up and his face was turning different colours.

"Ya Altaïr!" He gasped, laughing to hard to breathe. "Altaïr you fell…you fell for it! Alhamdulillah, I was so sure you two were…were going to have a stroke but I think…I think I am- PFFFT, AHAHA!" He was sniggering and sniffling and cackling, and Altair was just turning into a walking tomato. Malik tried getting that pear out of his nightgown.

"Kadar!" Malik growled, finally getting rid of the orange. Weird, Altaïr didn't recall seeing any fall onto the ground. "What is the meaning of that? Kadar? KADAR!" The more they talked or yelled or any thing, for that matter, the more intensely Kadar had to work to breathe. He was keeled over in the fetal position with his face beet-red, holding his stomach and looking in pain. The tears started becoming more frequent and more a moment Altaïr was positive that the young boy was just crying. "_Any ways_, Altaïr, wha-?"

"Go to Al Mualim." He was looking at the ground before he got up and swung the door open to march back to his house soundlessly, being to bashful any more. Kadar calmed down, sighing quite a bit only to rev up again at a needle-sharp glare from Malik.

"Aww, come off it, Ya Malik!" Kadar yelled. "It was just a joke!" Worst joke ever.

"I will kill you," He grumbled before curling back into bed as well.

* * *

A/N: hrrrnnnghhhhh. This took a long time... and I don't like the way formats it. Go to dA for a better view and shiz.

Uh Enjoy, more to come EVENTUALLY when I'm not lazy


	2. Meet the LetterWriters

Al Mualim paced his study restlessly, checking out every book –had he read it already twice over or not– and every banner that hung about three times before collapsing in his chair, waiting for the young teen's return.

"I am here, Master! What is it you wish to speak of?" A voice came from no where, followed by a lanky figure running up the steps to the front of the Master's desk. The elder Assassin gave a weary, relieved smile, feeling slightly guilty that he appeared to have had Altaïr wake the young novice up, given by his night gown/shawl combo.

"There is a problem with Altaïr."

"There always is," Malik muttered. Al Mualim glared at him for a second, getting up and pacing now behind his desk, taking long, brisk steps.

"Has he told you of his news?" Grabbing the end of his quickly growing beard lightly, Al Mualim twisted it in his state of worry around one of his fingers, duly noting that it was starting to grey.

Malik furrowed his brows in confusion. "No, not himself. Though I think I might've overheard him telling Kadar in my sleep."

"My apologies. I will reveal to you, then, what I revealed to Altaïr though you are not to repeat it – not even to Kadar – until you have Altaïr's permission otherwise!"

"Yes, Master." Malik tried to relax his muscles, but his arms and legs kept tensing up in anticipation.

It is definitely easier, Al Mualim decided, to tell someone who's not family. "…Altaïr's parents were murdered by our enemy."

"Oh no," About a thousand thoughts at once sprung into his mind, making him dizzy. "Who is our enemy? Why Altaïr? Is he okay? If you did not bring me here to tell me this, judging by the way you thought I already knew, then why _am_ I here? Are _my_ parents dead?" Malik's face paled, and his eyes started to sting at the thought of how Kadar would take the news.

A crash of relief flowed through him, allowing his body to go slightly slack as Al Mualim shook his head. "No, no, your parents are alive and well as far as I know. But Altaïr was not even phased the slightest. He seems almost delighted with the news." Al Mualim pursed his lips, giving his pigeons a worried look. They tweeted.

Malik shrugged. "So? He never cared for his parents. He called them by their first name." He squinted at his hands, feeling slightly uncomfortable with the thought of any one doing that. "Surely there is a reason behind my presence. Might I know it sooner than later? It is late – I am hasty to get some sleep."

"As should Kadar, I intend to start his training soon. Possibly tomorrow. Could you warn him?"

"As you wish. Is that all?"

"No. Keep an eye on Altaïr for me, too, please."

"Dismissed." He opened the bird cage, letting the pigeons free. Malik watches as their silhouettes blended into the moon before departing.

"Kadar, are you asleep?" Resting his fingertips on the edge of the tall windowsill and raising to his toes, Malik peered into his lit little cottage, seeing Kadar 'trying' to read. More like a cover-up.

"Nooo."

"Well you should be! Now open the door, I know you heard me knocking! And you can't even read, put that book away." Malik dropped down to his feet, walking to the door and waiting impatiently for it to be opened.

"Ho hum," Kadar sighed out. The little brother leaned forward from his spot on a pillow and shoved the book on Armour Repair wherever it fit in the bookshelf. He lifted himself to his feet with a flourish, and opened the door, keeping one hand on it delicately as he stepped to the side, bowing into an 'L.' "Please, Sir Malik the Great!" His elder grinned, and, in good spirit and the need to amuse his brother at some point or another, walked in, taking each step with caution. He closed his eyes and held his chin up, looking quite smug and arrogant. Kadar rushed to get the decorative rug off the floor and sling it around his brother's shoulders. Malik crossed his arms, peeking one eye open to see there was no where to sit at the moment that was 'royal' enough.

"Go, peasant boy, I am feeling dehydrated! Fetch me a glass of water!" Malik stacked the few pillows they had into a precariously swaying stack and plopped himself on top with a grunt.

"I would be honoured, Sir Master Lord Malik the Great!" Closing the door, Kadar started for the kitchen but was stopped by a feathery pillow that hit the back of his head and rolled out in front of him. Kadar picked it up, fluffing it with both hands, giggling. "What?" He inquired with an insulted tone.

"What is with all the silly honorifics? It sounds ridiculous!" His brother's voice was rough, but was so naturally, so Kadar didn't mind it, throwing the pillow back at Malik's head hard enough to knock him off the stack and the rug off his back. Feathers went flying in every direction.

"Nu uh! It sounds _prestige_!" Kadar made an equally full-of-himself grin. The two laughed at how obnoxious it was.

"No, you idiot, you do not even know what 'prestige' means." As he spoke, he sat up, cross-legged. "Besides, one cannot be a sir, _and_ a Lord,_ and_ a Master! It's one or the other!"

"Or the other." Kadar added.

"Yes. So which am I?"

"Hmm…"

"'Hmm' is not a choice!" Malik stuck his tongue out playfully.

"Well it should be," the younger muttered, getting the pillow chucked back at his head.

"Novice!" Kadar jumped at Malik but was defended, and ended up toppling the two over on the ground ungracefully.

"Okay, okay! Sir!"

"Just sir? I am offended!"

"Just? I am a peasant boy! I do not even have a name!"

"Peasant boy is a name!"

"So what if mother called me peasant boy?"

"What of the homeless? You at least have a title."

"Homeless is a title!"

"Not thought well upon!"

"Nor is peasant boy."

"Huff!" Malik shoved Kadar off. "You have got me there. Sir I am!" Kadar hopped up and went to the little kitchen opposite of the room to get Malik a glass of water, returning it to Malik. "Thank you." Malik took a small sip, then remembered of his good news for his brother and nearly choked it down so he could tell. "Ah! Kadar, guess what Al Mualim told me today!" Both faces lit up, Malik's in excitement for his brother's reaction, and Kadar because he's 4 and life's a ball at that age.

"What is it?"

"You're going to start training tomorrow to become a novice!"

Kadar nearly pissed himself. "WHAT? REALLY?"

"Shh!"

"Alhamdulillah, God must really be acting in my favour today!" Like an over joyous school girl, he jumped around, getting clothes, books, and the sorts ready for the next day. He swiped two pillows from the mountain that Malik was sitting on.

"It is vigorous training, my brother. Rest well!" He lay down and blew out the candle. "Goodnight!"

"To you as well!"

Truth be told, Altaïr really just wasn't upset. Sure, disturbed that any one would be murdered for no reason against the actual person, but since he was three, Al Mualim had taught him everything he needed to know. He showed him that God was made up and of the Assassins and why they do what they do. He showed him reality rather than falsehood. Logic took over, and two years ago that was that. After his father kicked him out, he was alone, but not for long. Al Mualim was quick to let the young boy reside in his own home.

Altaïr now had a job along with the unnecessary position of a novice, seeing as how he didn't have to start even Kadar's training till he was ten and luckily be promoted to a novice at 15. Malik was incredible, but Altaïr was better – he became a novice at the age of six after only three years of training – which started when he was three. Kadar wasn't far behind.

Talented or not, Altaïr knew he was a burden on the busy Al Mualim and would love to live on his own, in his own house that _he_ would pay for. So he was saving up money, and was only at ten coins at the moment.

He didn't get paid fairly for what he did more than often, maybe a coin every couple months, two if he was really good. The only time that happened was when he got violently ill and couldn't speak for a while. Then there was the time he got robbed, after working there for only about a year. It hadn't happened since, but it left him with two out of the thirty coins he had collected since Al Mualim took him in.

But a small income was better than none, and he liked his job – for the most part.

Pushing on beat up shoes, Altaïr trudged to a small building in the Market at around 6am: sunrise. He glanced over the counter directly to the right as he walked in to see the man he worked for prostrating for Fajr, who growled at him to "get to translating."

Working in a post office type place was less than amusing sometimes, especially when he was stuck translating letters from one to another that he didn't know, as requested by the writer. After half a year, though, Altaïr had come to enjoy the new languages, liking the fact that it taught him a new was of speaking. He was now okay at, if not fluent in Arabic, naturally, English, French, Greek, and Turkish. He loved to translate, though, because he felt like he was the only thing the people relied on.

Most interestingly, he was reading into other peoples' lives.

One time Altaïr was given the job of translating a boy's letter to his lover from English to Arabic and vise versa. It was his first time with English, so, evidently, he found it very boring at first. It took three days to finish the first letter of many to come, an hour a paragraph, working nearly all day, give or take the couple hours he left to go study or when Malik barged in and forced him to eat.

Not that the actual translating became fun, no, English was hard, be he fluent or not. But as the translations started to become words and sentences and sense rather than letters formed together to get money, he found that this was the story of a rather young English boy who'd met an Arab man on horseback in Jerusalem. When he had to return to his own home in Acre, due to being kicked out of England for being an 'abomination' (gay, Altaïr later collected with many "Eww!"s, having been only five at the time), the two started writing back and forth, and Altaïr was lucky enough to be the one translating. Apparently he had come to Jerusalem to see if it was any better than Acre, unaware of the political fuck up going on. He had been sheltered all his life, up to the age 15, when he fled England. He had since been looked down on in Acre, the most English place in the Holy Land, for being a homosexual.

The Arab had been just on his way to Masyaf from Jerusalem for similar reasons, being caught kissing a man. He was a whopping 7 years older than the Englishman was now – 26. This meant the Englishman had to be 19.

Even in line for execution, the older lover found time to write, the two having become very attached over the span of two years. Altaïr had found the letter stained in blood, settled underneath a large rock, and recognized the handwriting. He sent it out in a polished, translated version nearly a month ago and was waiting not-so patiently for the reply, moreover because he wrote at the bottom that the Arab was beheaded, sadly. How he knew, he never wrote, but to be a part of the inspiring relationship made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

Suddenly becoming anxious, he sloppily finished translating a woman's letter to her son, apologizing for her failure as a mother and stating that his stuff was still in the house if he wanted them. _A pity to that son_, he thought with pursed lips, sealing it inside a hand-made envelope made by an old man in the back of the office. _This one's bloody too. She must have written it knowing she was going to die._ He set it aside in a pile of envelopes that he had already translated that day, the number now being a grand total of one, and rummaged through the rest, looking for – there it was! It was very heavy, oddly enough. Disregarding that, he tore the seal carefully, unfolding the page that was inside.

_Dear Altaïr,_

_Thank you for translating all my letters to Arabic! It must be hard, surely you are very intelligent. I am…in horrible woe to hear of this news but would not want to hear it from any one else._

_ I'm not sure what to do any more. I'm sure you know our story; you mentioned having been doing this for quite some time. I loved that man like no other; I wish I could've seen him one last time before he died. Maybe I'll find an artist, hmm?_

_ As an act of total appreciation, I've given you…a gift in the packaging. Do whatever you please with it, but make sure you tell me!_

_Hoping to hear back,_

_Adam Greenwood._

Shock. Total shock. Altaïr opened the enveloped again and nearly started bawling to see money, and lots of it! Bills and coins, it looked like this guy was rich! His throat got dry and tight, and he bit his lip to keep the tears that dared come forth to ruin his letter back. They came any ways. He grabbed a quill and a sheet of paper, writing back hurriedly and without a translation book:

_Adam,_

_I can not thank enough for the gift. I intend planning to purchase a house with it because you did given me the amount – enough to finally fulfill the dream and to discontinue this job and start up again the training as a novice for the brotherhood I was admitted to. I have 10 coins only been paid in two years, this terrible place._

_ Over years to come I probably will not to remember English as well if I am to discontinue, as I am already bad without book of words in languaging and can not take it with me. So please bear with them. No here is schooler of English, so…_

_ So that is it for now, I guess. Again, thank you so so much!_

_Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad_

He sealed it within an envelope, getting up in one swift motion then strolling very calmly to the man behind the desk, handing him his letter and the one he translated before it.

"I see more letters to translate!" He barked. "At least twenty!"

"I resign. This is all I did beforehand."

"What?" The man snatched the letter ungraciously, examining them as if Altaïr had poisoned them.

"I am done. Now pay me for what I worked two years for!" Altaïr glared, but the man snorted.

"I did. Go away."

"2 years does not add up to 10 coins!"

"You have got to be kidding me! I paid you more than that!"

"Then why does my collection only go to ten?"

"…You spent the rest-"

"_You liar_!" Altaïr looked ready to hurt the man.

"Want to get out of here?" A knife was purged from the counter and pointed at the novice. He'd heard more clatter in the shelf and gave up, figuring the man would start propelling them and one would surely hit.

"No sir," he growled.

"Then leave."

With a nod, Altaïr left with the package in his hands against his chest tightly, too elated to be mad any more.

* * *

**A/N:** If ya' didn't get it by now, Altair's a letter translator. :D This was one of the more fun chapters to write. :)


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